Windfall. Desmond Bagley

campaign a week before its own was due to start.

      A company wanting to take over another, as in the Electronomics case, would like to know the victim’s defensive strategy. Someone wanted to know what bid price Electronomics would jib at, and employed Peacemore to find out.

      Of course, no one on the Board comes right out and says, ‘Let’s run an espionage exercise against so-and-so.’ The Chairman or Managing Director might be thinking aloud and says dreamily, ‘Wouldn’t it be nice if we knew what so-and-so are doing.’ Sharp ears pick up the wishful think and the second echelon boys get to work, the hatchet men hungry for promotion. Intermediaries are used, analogous to the cut-outs used in military and political intelligence, the job gets done with no one on the Board getting his hands dirty, and an under-manager becomes a manager.

      Defence is difficult because the espionage boys go for the jugular. All the security guards in creation are of no avail against human weakness. So Stafford Security Consultants investigated the personnel of their clients, weeding out doubtful characters, and if that was an offence against human rights it was too bad.

      And sometimes we fail, thought Stafford.

      He sighed and picked up the neglected whisky which Curtis had brought in. And now Gunnarsson was mixed up in the affairs of a friend. Not that Stafford felt particularly friendly towards Dirk Hendriks, but Alix was his friend and he did not want her hurt in any way. And Gunnarsson was not acting in a straightforward manner. Why had he not produced the missing heirs?

      Stafford checked the time. It was probably after office hours in Jersey but he would try to talk with the Jersey law firm. There was no reply.

       SEVEN

      The next morning, just after he arrived at the office, Stafford took a call from Peter Hartwell, the director of the Jersey holding company whom he had queried the day before. Hartwell said, ‘Your man, Hendrykxx, died a little over four months ago. The body was cremated. I checked the newspapers and it went unreported except for the usual formal announcement.’

      ‘What was the cause of death?’

      ‘Heart attack. It was expected; he had a history of heart trouble. I discovered we shared the same doctor so I was able to ask a few questions. I went to the Greffe and saw the will. Makes bloody interesting reading, doesn’t it?’

      Stafford said, ‘I’m surprised the newpapers didn’t get hold of it. It’s not often multi-millionaires hop their twig.’

      Hartwell laughed. ‘Millionaires are not uncommon here—they’re just plain, ordinary folk. Besides, Hendrykxx lived very quietly and didn’t make waves. The news boys don’t read every will deposited in the Greffe, anyway.’

      ‘How long had he lived on Jersey?’ asked Stafford.

      ‘He came in 1974—not all that long ago.’

      ‘What about the executor? What’s he like?’

      ‘Old Farrar? Good man, but damned stuffy. What’s your interest in this, Max? Isn’t it a bit out of your line?’

      ‘Just doing a favour for a friend. Thanks, Peter; I’ll get back to you if I need anything more.’

      ‘There is one odd point,’ said Hartwell. ‘The clerk in the Greffe said there’s been quite a run on copies of that particular will. One from England, two from America and another from South Africa.’ Hartwell laughed. ‘He said he was considering printing a limited edition.’

      After he put down the phone Stafford leaned back and thought for a moment. So far, so uninteresting, except possibly for the requests for copies of the will. He snapped a switch, and said, ‘Joyce, get me Mr Farrar of Farrar, Windsor and Markham, St Helier, Jersey. It’s a law firm.’

      Five minutes later he was speaking to Farrar. He introduced himself, then said, ‘I’m interested in the late Mr Jan—Willem Hendrykxx. He died about four months ago.’

      ‘That is correct.’

      ‘I believe you are having difficulty in tracing the heirs.’

      ‘In that you are mistaken,’ said Farrar. He had a dry, pedantic voice.

      Stafford waited for him to continue but Farrar remained silent. Well, Hartwell had said he was stuffy. Stafford said, ‘I take it you refer to Henry Hendrix of Los Angeles and Dirk Hendriks of London.’

      ‘You appear to be well informed. May I ask how you obtained your information?’

      ‘I’ve been reading the will.’

      ‘That would not give you the names,’ said Farrar dryly. ‘But essentially you are correct. Mr Henry Hendrix is flying from the United States tomorrow, and Mr Dirk Hendriks has been informed.’ Farrar paused. ‘It is true that I was surprised at the length of time taken by…’ He stopped as though aware of being on the edge of an unlawyerly indiscretion. ‘May I ask your interest in this matter, Mr Stafford?’

      Stafford sighed. ‘My interest has just evaporated. Thanks for letting me take up your time, Mr Farrar.’ He hung up.

      The telephone rang almost immediately and Alix came on the line. ‘It’s true, Max,’ she said excitedly. ‘It’s all true.’

      ‘If you mean about Dirk’s inheritance, I know. I’ve just been talking to Farrar.’

      ‘Who?’

      ‘The executor of the estate. The Jersey solicitor.’

      ‘That’s funny. The letter came from a solicitor called Mandeville in the City.’ Alix hurried on. ‘Dirk knew all the time. He said he didn’t want to excite me when I was having the baby. He had to go to South Africa to collect evidence of identity. He got back this morning and he’s seeing the solicitor tomorrow. And there is a long-lost cousin, Max. He’ll be there too.’

      ‘All very exciting,’ said Stafford unemotionally. ‘Congratulations.’ He paused. ‘What do you want me to do about Hardin?’

      ‘What would you suggest?’

      ‘He strikes me as being an honest man,’ said Stafford. ‘From the way it looked there could have been jiggerypokery, and Hardin did his best to put it right at considerable personal effort. I suggest you pay his London expenses and his total air fare. And you might add a small honorarium. Shall I take care of it?’

      ‘If you would,’ she said. ‘Send me the bill.’

      ‘I’ll break the news to him at lunch. ‘Bye.’ He rang off, asked Joyce to make a lunch appointment with Hardin, and then sat back, his fingers drumming on the desk, to consider the matter.

      There did not seem much to consider. Mandeville was probably Farrar’s London correspondent; law firms did arrange their affairs that way. Stafford wondered why Dirk Hendriks had not told Alix before he went to South Africa—she had had the baby by then—but he always had been an inconsiderate bastard. There were a couple of minor points that did not add up. Who shot Hendrix and why? And why hadn’t Gunnarsson produced Hendrix in England as soon as he had been found? But he had only Hardin’s word for those events. Perhaps Hardin really was a con man and playing his own devious game. Stafford, who prided himself on being a good judge of men, shook his head in perplexity.

      He got on with his work.

      Stafford stood Hardin to lunch in a good restaurant. The news may have been good for Hendrykxx’s heirs but it was bad news for Hardin, and he judged a good meal would make the medicine go down better. Hardin said ruefully, ‘I guess I made a fool of myself.’

      ‘The man who never made a mistake never made anything,’ said Stafford unoriginally. ‘Mrs Hendriks doesn’t want you to be out of pocket because of this affair. How long is it since you left Gunnarsson Associates?’

      ‘Just